Paris
by Dany Corbett
Summary: If one little element was suddenly added to the circumstances, how would everything respond to it? The story of the Phantom of the Opera could have been different, considerably different... Leroux retelling.
1. Christine

**Hi. This novel was written a long time ago, and some of you may recall it from my old webpage. I am currently rewriting many parts of it and I shall be posting the new chapters here as well.  
**

**It is a retelling of Leroux, following the original timeline as accurately as possible, but considering the following premise: **

**_"Is it possible to change something that is meant to be? If one little element was suddenly added to the circumstances, how would everything respond to it? _**

**_The story of the Phantom of the Opera could have been different, considerably different..._**"

**Please note it was planned as a long novel. If you are here just for some quick reading, you can just skip to chapter 3 (Erik's first appearance) ;)**

**I hope you like it. If you have any comments, suggestions or criticism, please share them with me. I have been working pretty hard on this story (which is over 200 pages long so far) and it is very important for me to know where I am standing. **

**Thanks a lot!**

**1. Christine**

I could have recognized that shy knocking on the door anywhere. It was immediately after the ballet rehearsal, and I still had my dancing clothes on. On the door, it was the pulsation that Christine always had; that light knock, unsure of what she was knocking for.

"Am I disturbing you?"

She knew I wouldn't turn her away, even if I wanted to.

"No. No, come in please," I said more enthusiastically.

She embraced me lightly and headed to the armchair in the middle of my room. She blinked her eyes apprehensively while I sat on my bed, right in front of her. Recognizing her unusual way of behaving when she had news to tell me, I laughed and said a little nervously, "What happened?"

She covered her mouth with her delicate hand and smiled. I held her other hand and insisted. She suddenly turned very serious and looked at me steadily. I tried to read this look, but it was hard to tell her intentions. I would say she was deciding if she should trust me with this little secret of hers or not.

"Meg, remember when we saw the Viscount around the Opera?"

Although I could say that I grew up in the Opera, the truth was, I was not always an artist. Even my actual position as secondary dancer was far more consequence of the good influence of my mother around the theater than anything else. I still hadn't found anything in the Opera I could relate to.

Christine, on the other hand, had a remarkably disciplined career, coming from distant lands. Her father taught her music since an early age, and after his death, she entered the conservatory. When she came to the Opera house, she was completely lost in Paris, and her voice seemed to be almost too lifeless, even to join the chorus. We soon became friends, and when she first spotted this old childhood friend in the audience, she confided in me.

Two more times she told me that she had seen him around, during daylight. I wondered if she was starting to see ghosts around the theater. Actually, I guess it was around those days that the presence of the major ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, was getting more noticeable. But the Phantom was only the theme of fantastic stories told among stageshifts and the ballet girls, while the aristocrat seen by Christine was our reality.

His brother, the Count of Chagny, had just acquired the Opera house, and directly, all the artists contracted. Our managers were substituted by a pair of smiling bourgeois.

I think that even for the old managers, the sale of the theater was advantageous. They were suffering from some kind of blackmailing, which quickly became the best gossip around the theater. The letters were said to be sinister but effective, once they forced the managers to pay a monthly wage of 20,000.00 francs to some unknown maniac.

But with the Count de Chagny owning the House, everything changed for Christine Daae. His younger brother, the Viscount de Chagny, got too close to the Opera. More than he wanted to.

"Meg, I was not mistaken! The Viscount is Raoul."

I knew he had shared with Christine the magical time when she lived with her now deceased father. I could see the importance of it to her.That afternoon, she told many stories about her rich little friend and the childish dreams she held about him when they were younger. Her eyes became a little sorrowful as she tried to point out how impossible this relationship was, since she was only a young singer with no background.

But she changed the subject quickly, directing her thoughts to her love for singing. Singing for Christine came close to a religious practice, exposed to me through the couple of years we lived together.

The theory was simple. Her father dead, he was to send her, from heaven, the Angel of Music to guide and teach her. As the years passed, she ended up believing that the Angel of Music was only a metaphor her father invented to encourage her, to give her strength to continue her career without him. But to the surprise of her senses, an Angel of Music truly came to her a while ago, as she told me. And he knew everything her heart longed for. Her voice had changed a great deal, and it did not go unnoticed by other people. It was almost supernatural the way her singing techniques had improved, and Christine insisted it was the result of her Angel's lessons.

When she told me about this Viscount, I confess I was afraid it would be one more of her fairy tales. But it didn't take too long for Christine to convince me that she was saying the truth. She had in fact been observing the boy, asking everyone about him, making sure he was Raoul, her dear friend. The Viscount was an extremely handsome fellow, with a boyish face that contrasted all the power he had from his noble position in society. That would be enough for Christine to show such an interest in him, but she assured me he was a very comprehensive soul, and that, together, they used to hear her father's legends about the North.

Not long after this day, Christine received the first strange proposal of her career. One of the new managers, Monsieur Firmin Richard, knocked at her room. I was there, chatting with her as we so often used to do. Seeing me, he bent and asked if I would allow them to talk in privacy.

Somehow he had noticed Christine's talent and was offering her the biggest role in a production! It was only for one night, naturally, to replace the great diva Carlotta, who was suffering from some sudden illness. But only someone who lives in a place such as the Opera knows the odds of such a thing.

Even I had to wonder, after all, if the touch of her Angel was somehow in this.


	2. Behind the scenes

Behind the Scenes

Behind the Scenes

For a few days I did not get to see Christine. She would spend her days literally locked inside her room, leaving the theater only late at night. I thought it was a rather unusual behavior, but didn't give it a second thought until later…

Thinking of it, I wandered throughout the second floor, as I often did, enjoying the heat and the luxury of its dependences. I had to confess I enjoyed having the true privilege of having free access to anywhere I wanted in the Opera House.

I met Madame Pautt, the head seamstress in the opera, on my way to the library. She seemed to be in the hurry, probably caused by the weight of the cloths she was carrying. Yet, seeing me, she stopped and greeted me, panting, with a satisfied smile.

She had been responsible for the figurines for every single production in the Palais Garnier. She was also a very well acquainted friend of my mother, being one of those who interceded for us and managed to gain us a permanent dwell on the Opera House, an old dressing room in an unused area of the theater.

"My dear Meg! You just wait to see the new Margaritta costume I'm preparing!"

Few people had permission to get into her stock and I was one of the lucky ones. As a child, there was no place more fascinating than this one. Of course, it was not always only fun - Madam Pautt took some unfathomable pleasure in making me model all sort of costumes, maybe because she had a strange predilection for my unusual frizzy red hair.

She eventually brought the Margueritte costume, and surprisingly, it was a remarkably tiny outfit.

"Little Meg, I wonder where you got this beautiful color of hair from!" I smiled, half expecting her comment. I thanked her for the compliment and inquired about the dress size.

"Ah, Meg, it's a long story!" She groaned and puffed, gesturing her hands in the air in indignation, "First they told me and my team to quit sewing, because they decided they wouldn't play Faust anymore. Then they said that I was to adjust all of Margaritta's costumes three sizes smaller, for some new young understudy, and with urgency! I hope they won't change their minds again."

Faust production was known to be considered, by all means, a cursed piece in the artistic means. That was not a good sign.

And then I understood: It was Christine! Everybody seemed to be going through a lot of trouble to have her performing…

She continued, "Imagine, having to do it all again, when the old costumes were so beautiful, and are still in perfect conditions, abandoned in the cellars."

When I left the room, I seemed obsessed with an idea…


	3. Trip to the cellars

**3. Trip to the cellars**

It had been a long time since I last went to the cellars.

Actually, I'd never gone further than some dismal areas of the second underground floor, where it was already tricky to visit without a lantern. By then, I got to see a few ill-lit chambers, rusted iron gates closing the passages to the lower levels, and a perfect scenario for a horror story. The result of this adventure was a serious reprimand I received when my mother learned about it through some nosey guard.

I remember when I first arrived at the Opera, as a youth coming from the country, how fascinated I was with that immense kingdom, seventeen floors altogether, five of which underground.

It was different than anything I had ever seen. I would play the explorer, and go everywhere around the Theater looking for ghosts, searching every room accidentally forgotten unlocked, investigating old sets, costumes and magic beings; everything was a new game. And there were, of course, the exciting stories and superstitions told by the old workers of the Opera, which would entertain us until the next ballet class. In that sense, I loved moving to Paris. But this city was not only luxury and beauty, as I learned later on.

Thinking of the cellars now, the only thing that made me ponder going there was the old warnings from my mother. We had all kinds of people working in the Opera, and she had always been worried about me rambling around - which I absolutely loved to do. Unlike the superstitious people of the theater, my mother was more concerned with the living people than the ghosts.

There were a few well-known stories about workers who should be avoided by young girls, and I didn't want to make one more. I thought about it for a second, and that was how long it took me to conveniently decide that if not for anything else, it was too cold for staff men to go around the theater haunting little girls.

I stopped by Christine's room, to see if she wanted to join me. I knew she was not fond of silly explorations, but thought it would be worth a try. Coming to the door of her dressing room, all I could hear was her voice, up and down in the notes. I decided not to interrupt her.

Grabbing a lantern in my room, I headed to the long corridor that gave way to the stairs. The difference between the upper levels and the area where my room and Christine's were was unbelievable. It was not as much for the cold as for the peeling walls and the dark halls.

One could hear clearly from there the music coming from the rehearsals, although the stage was a long distance from where I was.

The sounds in this Opera House seemed to know all the ways around it, and to be everywhere at the same time.

I remember my older sister, during the only visit she paid to us, complaining about the voices and sounds. "They are always in my head, all mixed up!" she said, overwhelmed. I think she never really grew accustomed to our eccentric home, letting it be evident that she was glad to be back in England and in her monotonous married life.

When, descending two narrow staircases, nothing could be heard anymore but my steps, an uncanny feeling struck me. The silence seemed oddly loud, compared to the constant effervesce of the theater! I would be scared to work anywhere below the main floor, surrounded by this solid emptiness of sounds. And there were people who worked underground, operating trapdoors or mechanisms that allowed the stage to rotate, depending on the performance. But once I reached the second cellar, it became a seldom occurrence to meet someone there. There was no activity there anymore, most of the rooms were inactivated. Only tons of ancient settings, spoiled costumes, ropes; and dust covering every inch of that desolate place.

I peered into a few rooms and thought it was a quite stale floor. Endless paraphernalia, but that was all.

The third staircase appeared before me, blocked with wooden boxes. I examined the barrier and failed in finding any reason to restrain myself. I found my way through the boxes and went down the stairs.

It was completely dark now, and I had to turn my lantern stronger to see where I was standing. I had expected, though I knew no one went there very often, to find some kind of illumination. From far away I could hear the sound of water running in tubes.

If the rest of the Opera was cold, I would have frozen in these cellars without my cape. But far worse than the cold was the humidity in the air, combined with a sharp and constant breeze.

I had to wonder why someone would build such an enormous place as the Opera House if so many areas of it would be eventually abandoned and completely useless. Perhaps the designer had other plans for these endless corridors and rooms than mere storage of sets and old material.

But The Opera House had not always had such a noble use, I must say. During the war, its cellars were used as a dungeon for thousands of political prisoners. I grew up listening to stories of skeletons found there and their spirits haunting the place. Not a pleasant atmosphere.

It was a sad sight - these forgotten chambers. The walls and the floor were built out of crude stone, covered with moss. Gas tubes formed a maze above my head and the cold was almost unbearable. It must have been a slow death to those who were locked down here.

What kind of people might have inhabited this place?

I decided to be reasonable and go back, since it seemed like there was nothing there for me.

I took my path again, walking faster to repel the rats, which I could detect by the noise they made. It was then that I tangled my feet in what came to be a big pile of ropes. I stumbled and hit the floor before I could tell what was going on.

I was upset for allowing myself to be distracted, and not watching my step. When I tried to stand up, a grief of pain took over me. The loud cry I gave must have reached every vault below the theater, and it was despairing to receive a thousand echoes as responses, in such a circumstance.

Groaning and restraining another cry, I reached out for my leg. The pain was overwhelming and it was clear I had badly injured it.

That hateful little voice came to my head, saying, "You knew you weren't supposed to do this. That's your punishment for disobeying..." I roared at the thought and decided not to panic. Looking around, no light and no one could be seen. I almost laughed at this dramatic situation.

Trying to keep the little coolness I had inside of me, I positioned my leg as comfortable as possible and began to scream for help.

I knew it wouldn't do any good, for though my cries could possibly reach the most remote areas down there, it would never make it to the surface.

Slowly the acceptance came - I was doomed to be left in that place until someone decided to go there, or until my despair was greater than the pain and I could finally drag myself up to the first cellar.

I gave a deep sigh and leaned against the block of stone behind me. It seemed to me that even the rats were quiet now. Looking at the lantern laying sideways, I turned it off. It didn't seem likely it would be needed anytime soon.

This would have been a good time to have faith in something. I wished I had at least half of Christine's beliefs, so I could tell myself that a father or a prince or an angel would rescue me. Unfortunately I had lost faith in all these magic-like things and I was pretty conscious I had none of those looking after me. It must have been so easy for Christine to go through hard times in her life... I never thought I would come to envy her imagination, and yet it would have been so helpful at that moment.

Knowing I had no other option, I resumed screaming for help. I understand that if someone was closer to where I was my screams would have sounded really annoying to him. And that is how I managed to get help.


	4. The Rescue

**4. The Rescue**

I was losing hope when a gloved hand fiercely covered my mouth.

The scare was so great that it took me some time to have thoughts going through my mind again.

The first thing I noticed was how bony the hand was and how creepy and cold it felt. It seemed like that dismal place finally created arms to embrace me.

I reached out for the person, trying to free myself, only to have my hands tied with a rope in an incredibly agile movement, and a piece of clothing skilfully placed on my mouth, gagging me.

Whoever this person was, I could tell he had a lot of practice at what he was doing. At the same time that this thought scared me even more, I realized there was not much I could do to help the situation. In prostration and anger, I took a deep breath and laid my whole body on the floor.

"Silence!"

The order was given in a sinister whisper and I began to be more frightened than angry. It did no good for me and made me start to cry, nervously.

"I said, 'Silence.'"

This time the male voice accentuated every part of its threat. I felt myself freezing inside and swallowed my last sob. The place being so dark, all these unknown surroundings, made me panic.

I felt a slight touch on my head and started.

"I will not harm you."

His voice, strangely full of calmness and very reassuring, cut the silence. This confused me even more. It was so easy to trust this voice…!

I could feel when he knelt by me and caught my lantern. It amazed me that he could find it in that darkness. Even if my eyes had gotten used to the lack of light, I could barely tell what was around me.

I heard the metal part of the lantern clang against the stone floor as he lit it. I was finally feeling more curious than frightened.

My mind became the stage to a decision: the character of this person's intent. At the same time I wanted to scream, I kept thinking that if he was going to help me that might not be that best way to behave.

The weak silhouette I saw didn't help me in my decision. The oil in the lantern was almost gone and it only illuminated my legs dimly. All I could see was a man wrapped in some sort of black cape, with a large brimmed hat over his head.

Again he touched me lightly, this time on my ankle.

His touch was apprehensive at first and he ended up retrieving his hands.

All I had heard about men hiding in the cellars came to my mind at once, and my first impulse was to struggle. As if guessing my thoughts, he placed his whole hand on my forehead, and said in an almost paternal way, "What did you do to your leg?"

Again his touch was deadly cold, but this time I felt comfortable under it.

When he finally brought himself to touch my leg again, his movements were mechanical and his fingertips traced the bones and muscles, in a physiological inspection.

I felt instantly a great tenderness for this man, not knowing why. From that moment, I felt a strange confidence in him and gave way completely. It is true I couldn't be absolutely certain if I was out of danger or not, but the way he so carefully examined the injury was almost...pleasant?

I managed to raise my head a little, I wanted to know who this paradoxical person was, so scary and so reassuring. When I finally succeeded in finding an angle to glimpse at his face, the disappointment filled me - for he was wearing a white mask that covered most of his face.

That almost glowing white took away some of the security I felt. This time, it was the ghost stories that came to my mind. This was getting really puzzling!

I was beginning to understand his mystery- this was a man not to be seen with the eyes - for it didn't matter how long I would examine him in the dim light - it was just a shadow wearing black from the hat to the boots.

I wished he talked to me...

The deft way he wrapped the bandage, the soft dabbing at my muscles, all that made a deep impression on me. His fingertips dancing around my leg gave me a singular feeling he was completely unconscious of.

At last his hands left me. He stood up, his very tall figure almost threatening. I wondered what he would do with me now. He said in a voice even more threatening, "You don't know how close you were from a magnificent death."

I knew he was not referring to my injury. But strangely, I kept as peaceful as I was before hearing this.

"You had luck, little girl. Now I'll return you to your sunshine world - and I hope you won't give me reasons to go there after you."

He was very still, but there was no doubt about the truth of his words. Leaning over me as if to hold me, he stopped for a moment and said, "And one more thing; if I ever find you here again, I promise you I will not be this kind!" and raised me in his arms at once.

He had no idea of how these words were striking me. I almost admired him for the power he transmitted in such a low beautiful voice.

He grabbed the lantern and gave it to me, asking gently, "Hold it, please."

He headed to a plain wall and there was an entrance, a dark passage I would have never seen. All this was beginning to feel like a nonsensical dream.

I cradled my head on his shoulder and gave a deep sigh. I was feeling no pain now, and I knew I would be safe soon. I just didn't know if I liked that or not. The contact with his body gave me a weird feeling - for under his velvet cape, his body was as lean as his own hands. And still he carried me with no apparent effort!

My face was very close to his, but I couldn't see anything besides the edges of the mask laying on the side of his face. I perceived an atypical fragrance in his neckband, like a strong woody perfume; and a musty smell that I recalled from somewhere in my childhood. The mix was not unpleasant, but it was difficult to imagine such a man living in a place full of ancient things covered by mothballs.

My lips were getting a little sore because of the clothing, but what bothered me was not being able to talk with him. Why did I have such an urge of communicating with him?

He moved in such a smooth way that if I closed my eyes I could say I was floating. Still I had my eyes as open as possible, trying to memorize every single turn of the path. What for? I had my reasons... I just wondered why he didn't care for blindfolding me.

I guess the biggest mystery was where he had come from. The only sensible explanation was he being an artist himself. But what in the world could he be doing down there? Oh, well, he probably had his reasons, just as I had mine.

We finally reached what I guessed, by the noises, to be the ground floor. Unfortunately, as we were inside some kind of tunnel or secret passage, it was still very dark and I couldn't distinguish things well. Oh, how anxious I was to see him, and talk to him! I could only see he was wearing evening clothes, which made him look more like a spectator than an artist. I could also make out a door in front of us.

When he opened it, I was absolutely amazed! We had just entered my own bedroom through a door I had no idea that existed. I was sure now that it was only a crazy dream, those that feel incredibly real when you are dreaming, but sound absurd when you wake up.

He entered the bedroom carefully. I had only one candle burning, probably lit by my mother to help me to find my way.

He quickly laid me on a couch and released my hands and mouth. Knowing myself free again, I didn't know what to do. And before I could make up my mind, the shadow was slipping through the hidden door.

I reached out in vain and yelled, "Wait!"

Seeing this magical being disappearing in the darkness without a single word, I felt my heart tighten and tried to run to the door.

"For God's sake, please wait!" I yelled, and tumbled on the floor.

I felt the pain in my leg again, this time stronger, and had my eyes full of tears when I found the man in the doorway. At that moment I forgot about everything else and looked up at him, standing in the darkness of the path. Showing impatience and anger, he asked, always in his low voice, "What do you want?"

I smiled at him, helpless. I didn't know either.

He lost his threatening posture at my grin. It was clear he didn't expect it, and furthermore didn't know how to respond. That gave me more confidence.

"I... How can I tell you how grateful I am?"

He was surprised. I couldn't understand why, but he was surprised. The mask, actually, didn't hinder me from reading his emotions. He expressed them so clearly through his movements or his voice!

"I mean...where can I find you to repay what you've done for me?"

I could see the sparks in his eyes now:

"Don't you ever think of finding me. You will see things worse than death!"

Then changing moods, he added in a tender voice, "Besides, you don't need to give me anything in return."

When I came back to my wits, I was alone and wallowing in that puzzle. And now I could feel the pain pretty well.


	5. The Phantom goes dine on the Gala Night

The Phantom goes dine on the Gala Night

The Phantom goes dine on the Gala Night

My mother never understood quite how I managed to stumble on the bare floor of my room, as I told her. A physician was called during the time I was on bed, and he diagnosed a slight fracture. 'It would be impossible to dance for long periods of time', he said. I knew I would not be in the next performance. Everybody felt very sorry for me being left out, and I was probably the only one who, secretly, didn't see things in that way.

When I started at the Ballet School of the Opera, I was truly excited, and for a while I believed that was what I wanted for myself. As the years passed, all the effort, all the training, began to lose its objective, becoming monotonous and dull. I enjoyed dancing, but I wanted so much more for my life than only that stage life! And as irresponsible as it might sound, I was so excited and preoccupied with what followed my accident that I could barely be sorry for missing a little performance.

Thinking of that, I sighed deeply. I knew the reality of the moment, and this was that dancing was a job that paid me fairly well. But how long would I hide myself in that apparently steady life? I hated when the only thing left for me to do was to ponder endlessly about problems without solution.

"Where would that masked man be?" I wondered, trying to distract my mind. But the old thoughts came back, stubbornly.

The first time I left the room in weeks was for the Gala Night. My head was so light on the day, it was hard to imagine how some people could spend years working or living in the exact same place, without seeing other people or the rest of the world.

The Opera House was entirely occupied by a huge crowd cladded in their fanciest attires, climbing the grand staircase, losing themselves through the corridors. I met my mother at the mezzanine level, she has been keeping box five, seven and nine. Wearing her old black dress, she was outstanding in the colorful crowd.

The performance was already over and piano music could be heard coming from the foyer, where the celebration would take place.

When I came into the room, all the ballerinas surrounded me, eager to tell me how beautiful the ballet was, and how frightening it was meeting the Opera Ghost just before getting onto the stage.

I had a weird feeling of not belonging to that place, and suddenly felt sad. I was definitely not dedicated or fanatic about dancing, though shivering and discussing the Phantom of the Opera with the other girls was one of my favorite pastimes. I bent my head slightly with this thought and walked away from them.

The celebration went on with people discussing the show energetically, and it was soon clear to me the climax of that night: it was not the ballet, which was in its best moment; it was not the musicians, or the presence of the actual composers of the pieces presented; it was the new "Margueritta", Christine Daae, who astonished the entire audience with the most beautiful voice of Paris, gaining a full-standing ovation that extended for several minutes.

As happy as I was when I heard about her huge success, I was a little concerned when James told me Christine had fainted just after singing her last note. "Little James", as some would call Cecille, was a dear friend, a bit younger than me. Her mother had been working as an usher side by side with my mother for years. And I knew how she loved to start new rumors.

It was La Sorelli, the main dancer on our group, who was able to tell me more about the abrupt ending to Christine's performance.

Sorelli was a beautiful woman, with a strong but delicate frame, and had the most exquisite eyes I had ever seen. These eyes were now responsible for the Count de Chagny's recurrent presence inside the dressing rooms.

She was standing by the end of the foyer, trying to memorize a speech she would present to the old managers. The Count was by her, watching her little coquettish gestures as she read the paper over and over.

"Hello, my dear Meg," she said in a slightly condescending voice, "how is your leg doing?"

I lifted the brim of my dress, showing my immobilized ankle - which made the Count blush slightly and turn his head away. She told me how sorry she was and introduced me the Count with a good touch of pride.

He was in his late thirties, a distinct man with a kind smile and cold eyes. He kissed my hand politely, and after some talking from Sorelli, he interrupted her and asked me, "Mademoiselle, is it possible that you saw my young brother, Raoul, around the dressing rooms?"

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I did not go through there. I came straight from my room on the opposite side of the Opera."

"It's just that... it's been a while since I saw him. He went to talk with this friend of yours, what is her name? Daye, Dyae... Anyway, that was after the performance, it has been a while now... But thank you."

I was already leaving them when Cecille came running toward us. She was waving her hands and tangling her fingers now on her ballet skirt. She approached La Sorelli and me in a secretive way and asked, very frightened and pale, "Can I please talk with you?"

The Count frowned at the girl but excused us. Sorelli looked pretty upset, 'This had better be important, Little James!'

"It is!", she said with wide eyes. She lowered her voice even more and announced, "He is here. The Phantom of the Opera."

I thought Sorelli was going to slap the girl, but her eyes quickly met what James was talking about: at the very end of the foyer, barely distinguishable in the distance, there was the figure of a man whose head seem to be dead, in spite of his polite gestures in refusing a drink.

The stories told about the Phantom said he had many heads, and he could choose which one he would wear. He even had a head "all made of fire", as someone reported once. But the "death head" was the most common in the descriptions.

It didn't matter to Sorelli whether this was the ghost or not. She only managed an expression of total disgust at the sight and left the room, looking for the Count de Chagny.


	6. The Angel's Triumph

**7. The Angel's Triumph**

"Christine!"

No answer.

"Christine!" I knocked again on the door.

She opened it suddenly, receiving me with a broad smile.

"Congratulations!!" I embraced her.

She kept smiling, and asked me to take a seat.

Her dressing room was well illuminated, the light-green painted walls giving it a cozy atmosphere. A full-length mirror in a wood frame showed my image as I stepped toward an armchair. Christine had still another mirror, in the top of her dressing table, where she displayed all her make up.

"The whole Opera speaks of nothing but you!"

I was proud of being her close friend, having my compliments taken as friendly words instead of flattery.

Her smile changed to a more humble and serious expression, "My dear friend, I don't deserve your compliments."

I didn't understand that fit of modesty. She pulled a stuffed chair and sat by my side, her long locks falling over her shoulders as she leaned in my direction.

"Meg, I can't even tell you how I feel! I'm so content! He promised me I could do it and I did!"

"Of course you could do it! People said you sang like an angel!"

She looked deeply into my eyes, and stayed silent for a minute, as if analyzing the veracity of what she was going to say.

"It was not me they heard! I was there...standing in front of those thousands of people...and I was unaware of it!"

She again gave me a wide grin, "This voice was singing in my head, I knew he was there with me. For you know, Meg, whenever I hear his voice I can't let go: I feel myself floating!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if she could really hear something I couldn't. "Then, I barely opened my mouth, and another voice started to flow! It couldn't be mine! It was pure and angelical, almost like his!"

I had always admired the way some people relate to music, talking about it and dealing with as if it was some kind of abstract magic, but this last observation made me think there was something more than poetry in her words.

"His?"

She suddenly became hesitant.

"Who is 'him'?"

"The Angel!"

She was terribly serious when she said that. I wouldn't dare make fun of her, but it was impossible to restrain an incredulous look. She went on:

"Although I've never seen him, his voice is always with me, talking and singing."

Absolutelely confused, I decided to play along. "And what does the voice say?"

"He tells me he will teach me to sing like the Angel he is. He talks of infinite beauties, of stories, and of songs and places I've never known. And he sings...Oh, Meg! If you could hear him singing! That's how I knew he was an angel the first moment he sang to me. How smooth and gentle and harmonious his voice can be! No mortal could be the same after listening to him."

I didn't know what to say. Christine was certainly under some spell. Her soul was soaring and it could all be seen in her face; her naive smile and blue eyes, with a faraway gaze from under her eyelashes.

I stood silent for a moment, figuring out what was going on with my friend.

"Christine, it is rather uncanny. I know you've been waiting for this Angel, for your Angel of Music, for a long time. I know you achieved something great and that your voice changed a lot in the last months. But...can you tell for sure where this dream of yours ends and where reality begins?"

Hitting the edge of her couch with her fists, she said, "I can't!! Or at least...I couldn't. You can guess the amazement I was in when this voice, coming from nowhere, started to sing and give me lessons! At first, I thought I was going mad! Little by little I've decided that if I'm crazy, I don't ever want to leave this madness, for I've never been as happy as I am now!"

I pondered that.

"You truly look much happier now, Christine." I was so apprehensive that it sounded almost sarcastic.

"I am happier! I love my Angel, who shows me patiently that I am a good person and a talented singer. I knew I shouldn't have told you more about it! I knew you wouldn't believe it!"

Feeling uncomfortable for not being worthy of her trust, I apologized. Christine calmed down, and said, "There's one more thing I want to tell you, Meg! You know the Viscount?

"Yes."

She laughed nervously and said, "Meg, after the performance, he came to my dressing room. I had fainted and was being examined by the doctor. When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling beside my bed!

"And what did he say?"

"He told me who he was," she looked down, somewhat sad, "but I had to pretend I didn't recognize him..."

"You did what?"

She looked at me again and explained, "My Angel was with me at the time."

I felt my patience growing short. I knew how Christine had been wanting to talk with the Viscount.

"So what?!"

She walked to the mirror, her back toward me. The curls of her dark hair fell graciously at her back as she grabbed a black cloak that was lying on the floor. She looked deeply at me.

"My Angel, Meg... My angel is terribly jealous of me... He says I should love him, and only him, and forbids me to have suitors. "

She sat by my side, caressing the cloak with her fingers. I followed her hands with my eyes and startled: it was identical to the one my mysterious saviour wore. I touched it apprehensively and looked questioningly at Christine, feeling frozen inside.

"What is wrong, Meg?"

I glanced down again, trying to convince myself there were many capes in the whole of Paris which would look just like his. Someone knocked on the door. It was my mother, with her perfect timing.

She greeted Christine and kissed me on the forehead.

"So, sweetie, how are you feeling now? Any better?"

I said with vehemence, "Oh yes, I'm quite fine! I feel as if I could dance a whole ballet scene!" They laughed at my remark. "Besides, I promised Bouquet's men I would give them a hand with the new scenarium."

At the mention of the worker's name, Christine and my mother exchanged a look. As I came to know later, they were wondering if that moment would be appropriate to tell me Bouquet was found dead, hanging in the cellars.

My mother said she had some soup waiting for me at home. I licked my lips playfully and opened the dressing room's door, when a crowd of girls from the ballet corps ran past us, screaming madly. I felt Christine shivering, and I laughed aloud, teasing her. It was another trick of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine gave me a reproving look, and closed the door as fast as she could.


	7. Second trip to the cellars

**8. Second trip to the cellars**

The stage area was already busy by the time I got there in the morning. Sets were lifted and lowered incessantly. There were a few policemen around, investigating Bouquet's "so-called" suicide, and the rehearsal for Faust had already started.

Now that there was no Bouquet to tell ghost stories, the artists themselves took his place, and spread details around the Opera the about how the Phantom had killed the storyteller.

When I first heard about that, I had to laugh! Sorelli came up with this crazy theory, and I thought it was an interesting way of sealing his fate: after all, this Phantom wouldn't be that popular, if it had not been for Bouquet's words.

Bouquet's fame as a storyteller started when he said he was in a dismal area of the Opera, face to face with the apparition. According to him, the word 'face' would be grossly inappropriate here; for the Phantom was a slender form with nothing more than a dead head over his shoulders. Before that, Bouquet was considered a quite reliable person and no one would doubt his words, though his attitudes with some chorus girls and ballerinas could be pretty reproachable. However, after going around the house giving his disgusting detailed description of the ghost, and spending afternoons warning the girls from the ballet corps to watch out for the spirit, he became some sort of a joke.

I used to be one of the first to gather around Bouquet and enjoy every single word he would say. It was much more fun than attending the rehearsals, and I had the opportunity of chatting with most of the dancers of the opera.

Nobody seemed to give too much importance to this accident, and kept going on with their own businesses. I realized soon that there was not much for me to do around the stage that morning, and the idea of going back to the cellars seemed terribly appealing.

I plunged to the second cellar without thinking of what I was doing, and it was not before I got to the third that I felt some apprehensiveness. I instinctively diminished my pace to not stumble again. This time I had just a candle in my hand, making my vision even dimmer.

Chamber by chamber, everything looked dark and abandoned down there. The wax was melting fast, and soon the little candelabra was covered by a thick gray layer. I was bothered by the wind, for it wouldn't allow the flame to be steady..

Most of all, I was anxious. As much as I knew the danger I was going toward, I had to meet that man again. Innocently believing he was another artist of the Opera House, I had half expected I would see him again soon, if not in the scene area, maybe down in the cellars.

The flame was blown out, and it was clear that candle wouldn't do me any good if I was planning on going even further down. I stopped and struck another match. The sound of it confused with a suddenly faint sound of footsteps far away.

I moved behind a piece of scenarium left against a wall and squatted. I blew the candle and prayed I would have a few more matches for when I needed them. The smell coming from the burnt wick soon faded in that dump place.

Even when he came closer, his steps were almost inaudible. I think that is how I recognized him, by that smooth way of moving his body.

He stopped exactly in front of where I was, making me wonder if he could, by any chance, sense my presence. His breathing was still and silent, while I could barely hold mine in excitement.

I finally heard his cape brushing the path, his steps taking him a few feet away. He stopped and reached out for something on the wall. Ducking even more behind the set, I listened attentively to his efforts in removing a block of stone. I was puzzled and fascinated at the same time. Having him within my reach was all I could ask for!

But what was to be done? Hadn't he warned me to never go there again? How would I explain that I had this need of meeting him again? Besides, from what he had shown, he didn't seem the kind of person who would listen to explanations, was he to find me there again. I felt somewhat lost, when I heard a sharp sound, like some kind of old rusty mechanism. The wall I was leaning against began to shiver, and a great block of stone in front of him gave way to a dimly illuminated passage.

This door of light, coming from nowhere, seemed to make perfect sense in that situation.

As he entered the door, I felt somewhat nauseous, knowing the only thing left for me to do. I finally brought myself to stand and walk to the passage. Once his shadow could not be seen anymore, I slipped inside the tunnel. The stone block closed immediately behind me, as in any good horror story...

I couldn't see him anymore. The tunnel was rather narrow and tortuous, and not as dark as the one that led to my bedroom. I couldn't tell how long I had been walking, touching the walls with my hands, pursuing the shadow I was lacking so much.The path was taking me downwards quickly, and I wondered if the Opera house in fact had an ending, or if I would descend to the center of the earth. Now and then, there was a candle in the stone wall, burning the last fragments of wax.

I came to what seemed to be a dead end, and there was nothing less than a door at it. An ordinary wooden door, with an ordinary metal knob, was standing in front of me! This man was a lot of fun! I reached for the knob, but realized turning it would make quite a noise, and I hadn't heard any noise during all the time I had been in the path. He couldn't have gone through there. Besides, I was learning he was not a man who appreciated doors and common paths.

Looking closer, it was not hard to find a narrow openning on the wall behind me. It gave way to a small room, all dark again except for a light coming from a round role, at my eyes' level. It was some sort of a key hole!

Every time I went to these cellars, I had this same sensation of dreaming. Everything was so incredibly nonsensical and still so compelling!

I climbed the stairs that led to the door and leaned against it to peer through the key hole. The wood moved with my weight, giving way to some light through the gap. The room I was in was full of wine barrels, tagged with the year and the origin! But a more fantastic discovery was still awaiting me.

When I looked through the gap, I thought I had finally gone mad completely.

All this maze underneath the Opera House, ruled by the shadowy man, was already unbelievable. But when I found myself peering at a classical Louis-Phillippe decorated living room, I bursted out laughing. Reassuring myself I was in a delirium, I laughed even harder - until the man appeared in the middle of the room, gazing in my direction.

I gasped and covered my mouth with the scare. He heard me! And yet he didn't show any reaction at all. He was probably used to this senseless kingdom and didn't surprise himself with my new out of place sounds.

While he was standing there, apparently lost within his thoughts, I could examine him perfectly. The first thing that caught my attention was how that man looked unnatural in the light. The way he was dressed, the way he moved - he seemed to be made for a life in darkness.

But his shape was a beckoning sight! He was lean but very tall, dressed up in a fashionable black tuxedo, covered by a long gorgeous cape. It was so strange! Why would someone who lives five levels underground care for such fancy clothes?

Again I remembered the cape I saw at Christine's room and was struck by a bad feeling. But I diverted myself from this thought.

It is true that he was very imposing standing there, like a dark mythological character. But at the same time, something in him was rather fragile and sad.

I silently thanked him for giving me such a chance of staring, unnoticed.

He at last turned his back to me and left my view. I could still see most of the living room: right in front of me was a brown velvet sofa, with two electric shaded lamps at its sides, and a small marble table in front of it, covered by books and sheets of paper. Behind the coach was another door. I saw a few chairs made of fine wood here and there, standing on a gorgeous exotic rug.

On the right side of the room was a huge pipe organ, occupying the whole wall. On the left was the entrance of another room, which was occupied by a coffin, laying under a red canopy.

Funny that the coffin did not add anything morbid to the room. The whole displacing of the furniture was, by itself, as death-like as it could be.

He returned to the room. He was no longer wearing the cloak or the hat. He sat by the organ, his back turned to me.

His hair consisted of a few greyish locks, combed with some oil to the back of his head. He looked older than he certainly was. His bony fingers were laid down on the keyboard and he stood like that, silently and grave, for a while. He bent his head a little bit, as an outward expression of some deep thought. I felt an urge of going to where he was, to watch him from closer. But I knew I had better stay where I was.

Then he began to play. The sound of the pipe organ was eerie and gave me the chills. Slowly the music became gentler, but he stopped playing abruptly. He looked around the room, as if searching for something. It was clear he could feel the weight of my stare.

Again he was gazing at the door where I was hidden. I couldn't see his eyes behind the mask. It was covering his whole face, except for the lower part of his chin. I wondered why he was still wearing it there, even if he knew himself alone...

Or maybe he didn't. Could it be possible that somehow he was conscious of my presence? I didn't care about it at all. I was bound to be there, close to him, as long as it was possible for me.

His eyes were fixed in my direction as he stood up and went to the couch. As he sat and reached for a book, he crossed his long leg and began to read it. But it was evident he was paying no attention to whatever was written there. Suddenly, he closed the book fiercely and came to his feet. He threw the book far into the corner and walked around the house in a nearly insane pace. I shivered in fear. Meeting me there would be bad enough, but knowing I had being spying him would be death.

He finally ceased his walking and clutched his hands in a fist. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

This notable fit of irritability showed me I was not playing a harmless game. I should return while I could, even if I had to figure how to open the passage by myself. But this was not the obstacle for my flee.

The problem was, I had been bewitched by him.

I've always had this incredible talent to convince myself, and whoever was around, that the most absurd solutions made perfect sense, and were absolutely suitable in determined situation. Who was to say they were not?

Because of this gift of mine a sound was suddenly heard. He, who had finally succeeded to control himself, looked out in dismay. Someone was knocking at his door!


	8. Reaching Out

**9. Reaching Out**

He flung the door open and trapped me in a corner of the small room. His whole body was leant over me, my head at about his shoulders' height. We looked into each others' eyes.

It was then that he recognized me. He recoiled in bewilderment. It was clear, even though he had a mask covering his face, that he had no idea of what to do. And neither did I.

I finally muttered, my eyes closed, "Please don't kill me. Not yet."

I could feel his unsure look, still on me, disconcerted. This gave me a bit of courage.

"I did no harm! I didn't mean to spy you."

He said with a surprising irony, "Ah, you didn't, did you?"

"I'll explain!"

Pointing the door, he roared, "Get inside at once!"

I ran inside, without thinking twice.

He entered behind me, clearly disturbed by my invasion. Slamming the door, he said evilly, "I take it you had a pretty good explanation for coming here."

I tried to think of one, but my mind was blank.

"I don't have any good explanation. In fact, Monsieur, I don't have any explanation at all."

I was silently begging for some sort of benevolence. I could feel him examining me from head to foot, as he was deciding what to do. It worried me what might be going through his head. The conclusion he came to at that point would be decisive.

With a little touch of sarcasm, he said, "Make yourself comfortable."

I looked around and decided to sit on the farthest corner of his sofa. He fetched the stool by the organ and sat on it. I couldn't help noticing his cat-like movements as he placed himself in front of me and leaned slightly in my direction.

"So, Little Meg, I hope you will enlighten me on this..." His ironic request ended with an explosion. "What the hell are you doing here?!"

As surprised as I was that he knew my name, I knew it was a warning that he knew where to find me if he had to. I just couldn't decide whether I feared it or anticipated it.

We spent a moment in silence.

"Well, since you don't answer me, I take you are searching for something...special...in these cellars."

He widened his eyes, giving me a sharp look, and came even closer.

"Could it be that I'm right?"

He was very close now, and his mask was bright in the electric light. I could tell by its texture it was made of some sort of porcelain, carefully designed to his face's shape. The white mask had stylized features in it, giving him an emotionless expression.

The mask always bothered me some. It supplied me with a good deal of uncertainty, for being with someone that knew me, but hid himself so efficiently. And besides, if he did so, he certainly had a reason for that. As much as I respected his motivations, I longed to know what was underneath the mask, and the question floated in the air, waiting for being asked. It was hard to know where I was standing when all I had in front of me was this barrier.

His eyes were deep in it. They were extremely, almost unnaturally, light blue, faintly cloudy, making me wonder if his vision was not hindered. His pupils were nearly nonexistent, as if very uncomfortable even in the faintest light.

I went in his direction and answered at once, "Could it be there is something special here to be searched?", giving a significant, almost impertinent, intonation to the question. He stood up and walked away. With his back turned to me, he said after some thought, "What do you want from me?"

And under his threatening attitude, I could swear he was almost...frightened. I could understand the reason for his hidden fear, or at least part of it: it was obvious nobody knew of his presence down there, and I was intruding upon not only his privacy, but his security. I'm sure no one would care for having a man living secretly in a corner of his property, even if he was apparently harmless. And to hide himself like that, he could easily be some kind of criminous. That was my first idea to explain the use of the mask.

Not being able to bring myself to tell him I was there after him, I stuttered, "I first came here...out of curiosity... I was going to...check the costumes for...the Faust production. I...I've lived here since I was this tall...and my mom..."

He interrupted me in a fit of impatience, "I know all that..."

I was looking at him, perplexed, when he finally added, calmer, "I've lived here for some years myself."

Glad he said something about himself, I inquired, "So...are you related to the Opera?"

"No, I am not." He sounded rather bitter.

Glancing at his pipe organ, I insisted, "But you are a musician, aren't you?"

Turning around in an outburst, he yelled, "Why does it matter what I am?"

His defensive attitude took me by surprise, and I didn't know what to say. Again, I felt guilty for imposing my presence like that. The fact was, I had no right to invade someone's home, least of all, his; though I didn't know yet how special that man was.

I bent my head and said, almost in a whisper, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude your privacy..."

He was silent for a while, then asked dryly, "How is your leg feeling?"

At that comment, I remembered what he did for me, and my regret for following him down there disappeared. I switch moods quickly and answered him, "It is a lot better. You see, I still have to wear a bandage, but it's not sore anymore."

I noticed, as I raised my dress to show him my ankle, that he didn't turn away as the Count had. Instead, he looked at it in the same natural way a physician would.

"The doctor said I was lucky I managed to immobilize it so well," I smiled, "it avoided further complications."

I glanced around as if looking for words. Not succeeding, I looked deeply in his eyes and said plainly, "Thank you."

He didn't answer, but his look didn't leave me.

Feeling somewhat abashed under his stare, I began, "I'm sorry for..."

"No. It is me who is sorry." He was back to his gallant way. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, I'm just not used to receiving... visitors down here." A little touch of sarcasm seemed to be inherent in most of his words.

Feeling a certain relief, I said, "Oh, but you should! You have an exquisite place down here!" I was being sincere; the whole room was decorated with beautifully carved wood, while a bunch of candles were burning around his organ. It was fascinating! I looked at the coffin and grinned, "Somewhat eccentric, I must say. But very neat indeed..."

"Thank you."

"So, are you a musician?"

From that point on, we were in an unspoken agreement that we could trust each other... at least for that moment. He was always gentle, though sometimes secretive and bitter. I savored his few words as samples of an intangible personality, who was greeting me with one of the first conversations he'd had in years, as he would tell me later.

I believe he only trusted me with this dialogue because he was scared. He wouldn't want someone missing in the Opera, especially if people knew I had been visiting the cellars -- Joseph Bouquet's death brought a lot of attention to that area already. And frightening me might bring people down there, too.

I wondered many things about him by that time: if he could have killed the stage shifter, if the person who did could kill him, or if he had something to do with the apparitions of the Phantom of the Opera... But I would wait for him to tell me what he wanted. And until he did so, I promised myself I wouldn't build any truths.

When he finally took me back upstairs, he didn't take any sort of light with us, as if he could actually see in that darkness. I was wearing a long warm dress in that day, and afraid of tangling my legs and stumbling again, I asked for his hand.

I knew how they would feel ungloved, for I had caught a glance of them during our conversation, and so I understood his hesitation at my request. But I couldn't tell his reaction when I grabbed it, for the tunnel was already dark.


	9. An encounter with the Viscount

An encounter with the Viscount

An encounter with the Viscount

I was sitting on the edge of the stage, distractedly glancing at an old newspaper. The theater was all dark exept for a few small chandeliers toward the auditorium's main entrance. Looking that way, it seemed like a sea of red velvet in front of me, the gold of the balconies outlining it.

I had been daydreaming for hours, not paying attention to what was going on around me. I would think that now I could understand what Christine felt about her angel! Having a little secret, having someone we care for, that was a childish pleasure I was at last enjoying. I couldn't wait for her to come back to Paris, to confide in her some of my experiences. She probably wouldn't believe me, and would look at me as cynically as I had looked at her in the past. And just like her, I wouldn't mind, because I knew I was right, and I knew the special thing I had, just for myself. I felt silly, and all I could do was laugh at this foolishness, joyfully.

I would recall his words over and over, and after a few days I had memorized perfectly every single word, gesture, and change of his voice.

I wouldn't know how to explain the effect he'd had on me. I couldn't think of one thing about him that didn't impress me! I believe I was truly infatuated with him because I blinded myself to all the strange evidences surrounding him. Although this feeling changed afterwards, I'm glad it existed, for it was this overwhelming magic aura which made me follow what I considered to be right at the time.

It took me a while to notice him standing in front of me that afternoon. He was calling my name, with a weary smile under his light mustache, his blond hair unwaved, as if his hands had been going through it trying to easy some anguish.

I was deadly curious to know what the Viscount the Chagny wanted from me! He didn't introduce himself in his haste, and I supposed he knew exactly who I was, too.

"Mademoiselle Giry, I have something important to discuss with you. Is it possible that we can talk with...some privacy? "

I nodded, smiling at the shy Viscount, and took him to a quieter place inside the empty dance lounge, in the back of the stage. We sat on a crimson velvet sofa, watching the few ballerinas exercising in front of the enormous mirror.

After struggling with a flow of words that seemed to want to come out of his mouth, he began to tell me, slowly, that he was a great admirer of Christine Daae.

I said I was, too, leaving him with the lead of the conversation again. I was so excited that he would actually care for Christine! I knew how radiant she would be...

Again he looked for the right words. "Mademoiselle, I trust you two are good friends, so I ask if you could intercede for my sake. I've been trying to talk with Christine for quite a while...at least it is taking longer than I expected... and she refuses to receive me. I give you my word, I have the best intentions toward her!"

"I don't doubt that, Monsieur," I said sympathetically.

He smiled with some relief. "Well...so I guess...that's what I needed to say..." he looked around, as if trying to remember what he actually had said, "tell Christine I still remember our dear friendship and would very much like to see her...if possible."

The Viscount was a good looking boy, but what was appealing in him was the innocence he had in his look, his gentle and almost feminine manners, his childish way of acting under that cover of nobility and wealth.

He kissed my hand, and was walking away when I called, "Raoul!" He turned around at once, his eyes eager for any information about my friend. He didn't seem to mind my intimacy.

"Christine told me she was preparing to leave for a few days, to a small village in the country." I tried to sound as friendly as I could. "I believe that could have kept her busy lately. I'm sure she will look for you soon."

He gave me a broad smile, so naive and helpless that I felt like hugging him, consoling his fears. If only he knew how much Christine cared for him!

"Thank you, mademoiselle Giry! Thank you very much!" he said enthusiastically.

He walked away, leaving me with my newspaper, my thoughts, and a grin on my face.


	10. An encounter with the Phantom

The never ending screams from the other ballerinas in the corridor were considerably bothersome. Their fast and heavy steps, the loud speaking, continuously. What were they doing close to my room, anyway? If it was not for the fact that I used to do the same thing - that is, screaming for no reason and any reason, and making of the installations of the Opera my own playground- I would have gotten pretty upset about it. But not today. I couldn't think of one thing in this world that could possibly spoil that contentment I was feeling!

It was time for the Classic Ballet class, I could tell, when the silence suddenly fell upon the outside of my room. I could easily picture my colleagues lining disciplinedly along the bar of the ballet room, under a constant stern and stoic glance of the teacher, waiting for the music to begin. It was sad that this was the dead general image that stuck in my mind, a summary of the career I had chosen, or better, that had chosen me.

I sighed in relief, remembering I was not allowed to go back to training yet. The injury, which forbided me to do any effortful movements in my right leg, had ironically become my excuse for freedom. I had been visited twice by a physician after taking off the bandages, and the amiable old man reassured me every time that my recuperation was impressive and quick. He advised me to rest as much as I could, and repeat some simple therapeutic exercises and massages.

I knew things were not that joyful, even if I haven't learned the extent of the problem yet. I had overheard some conversation between the doctor and my mother on the sequels the accident would leave, possibly hindering some specific ballet movements forever, and I could tell it was not healing as fast as it was supposed to if it had only been a common injury.

In the mean time, I was told by the Ballet Master to attend the classes, so I would be aware of the new things the group was incorporating into the choreography. I think he did that mostly out of pity, so I wouldn't feel so excluded, and so suddenly.

Watching the classes at least gave me something to do in the afternoons. The cold weather reigning over Paris endured throughout that whole winter, as if it was a dark sign of the things going on in that Theater. The death of the stageshift was only the beginning of some tragic events, and I believe that the most tragic ones passed imperceptibly for most of the people around - as usual.

I finished getting dressed, noticing my face in the mirror growing paler. I was ready for some fresh air and some sun! Being enclosed in that dark cold Opera House was good for no one.

The thought inevitably led me to the man who lived in the cellars. How could he stand that routine of darkness? It was impossible to say, from down there, if it was day or night, or which season of the year it was... I would be afraid that the world could come to an end, and I would linger living down there, inadvertently.

As I got to the dancing room, a big crowd of ballet girls discussed something excitedly. I quickly imagined the Phantom was the subject. It seemed like, in one way or in another, he was always inside everybody's heads. Cecille came towards me, giggling, "Meg! Meg! You won't guess what happened!"

"You saw the Opera Ghost," I said in a passive but friendly voice.

She widened her eyes and asked, "How did you know?!"

I winked and laughed.

Knowing how fond I was of having to watch those classes, she easily convinced me to accompany her to her dressing room while she changed into her dancing clothes. I think "Little James" was one of the few artists who had to share a dressing room worse than Christine's, and that was pretty bad.

We were turning a corner when she suddenly screamed with all the potential of her lungs. I screamed, too, startled by her outburst. I followed her eyes and saw...him! With his elegant evening clothes, his velvet cape, and his mask, he was standing in front of me!

Poor Cecille was paralyzed, only able to mutter the word "ghost" after each cry. He ran away. I ran after him.

To understand this reaction of mine, one must know how the uncertainty of not knowing when or how I would meet him again consumed me. Adding that I was constantly preoccupied with that man, all I could do was chase after him--for I didn't even have a name to call for.

Obviously, he expected me to run, but in the opposite direction. When he found me three feet behind him, he was, at the least, surprised. I reached easily for his cape, grabbing it forcefully. He turned around so quickly that the next thing I realized, his hand was around my bare arm, holding me as claws.

"I'm tired of people grabbing my cloak like this, you know that?"

His voice, full of distress, uneased my heart.

"You never told me your name..." I said, helplessly.

"My name...is Death!!" he barked at my face, his nails nearly piercing my skin as he strengthened his grip.

I couldn't imagine him being so monstrous! As disturbed as he was when he found me in the cellars for the second time, he never made me question his humanity or character.

"You are hurting me," I said tearfully, looking at his rotten-looking hand, more evident in the light. He released my arm, throwing me against the wall, yelling, "And I will hurt you a lot more if I decide so!"

That was so true. I had exposed myself too much, expected too much, out of nothing. And there was nothing to receive in return. All that made me completely vulnerable to him.

I couldn't turn my eyes away from his, searching desperately for an explanation. But there was none. His unexpected and unexplainable words were hurting me endlessly. His eyes were taken by an ugly fury, that seemed to manifest on anything that surrounded him.

"Why are you so angry with me?" I finally asked, trying to rescue the gentle man that I thought existed behind the mask.

He was more steady now, but the anger was still there, though restrained. And it was awful hearing that powerful deep voice ripped with so much hatred.

"I am not angry with you, Meg Giry, and I couldn't be: for I ignore you! I ignore the entire human race. Your existence is as useless for me as the others' who crossed my path before. Take, for instance, Monsieur Joseph Bouquet."

His eyes shined in a cruel way. If he meant to scare me further by telling me that, he failed, for his words had no meaning anymore. I felt my body slipping against the wall, finally sitting on the floor, my eyes still fixed on his.

I allowed my head to fall between my knees, my world falling down as well. I felt the tears running down my face uncontrollably.

Rejection. Rejection of a feeling that didn't have time to grow. Destroyed mercilessly, thoughtlessly. It didn't matter if he killed one man or a hundred. At that moment, he had killed me.

I couldn't tell when he turned his back to me and left that corridor of the Opera House, but after the surprise, after the pain, after all this, came the anger. As alive as it was in him, I felt it on my heart now.

So stupid it seemed to me, that I had to wonder if his only goal was hurting me. No, I knew he wouldn't even bother to go that far.

Everything was fine, and my life would keep going on without him. But it was too little. I wanted more, and I wanted it badly.

I had gone too far. I had expected too much. I had considered my own what was not. I had considered gained what I hadn't. And it was my fault giving in to this silly infatuation with someone I did not even know. It all made me furious.

I brought myself to my feet and slowly dragged my body to my room. My eyes were lost somewhere. I couldn't see a soul in front of me, nor feel a soul inside of me.

I collapsed on my armchair and closed my eyes. Feelings and images ran wildly inside my head. "I have gone too far to go back!!" I thought, punching the arm of the chair.


	11. Coming back from PerrosGuirec

_**Dear all,**_

_**First, thanks a lot for reading my story and for the reviews and comments.**_

_**As you might have noticed, my intent in this story is to follow Leroux's timeline as accurate as possible, except that slowly the events and characters will take different paths and interact in different ways.**_

_**I would love to hear your opinion, either by PM or reviews.**_

_**Also, I would be particularly curious to know how much you enjoy reading about the development of the characters, i.e., how many of you prefer to see only intense action scenes (usually including Erik;)) and how many enjoy reading details and insights about other characters' life and thoughts.**_

_**Thanks a lot!**_

_**Dany.**_

_**PS. Erik is back in chapter 13, but it will make more sense if you read everything. ;)**_

**The Phantom of the Opera **

Too far. And yet it was nothing.

The anger slowly melt into sadness, and I cried all the anguish away, feeling deadly lonely. For some reason, I felt deeply connected to him since the first day I met him. The episode after that, when I got to know his house and to hold his hand, had been my great treasure. I know we were perfect strangers then, but still it hurt seeing that that special relationship I had anticipated never came close to the truth. But of course, I was unaware of everything he was going through at that moment of his life.

I once stopped to think that he could be behind the walls, watching me, and that made me cry harder, angry at myself for holding up illusions. However, after a while I couldn't take this idea from my mind, and some kind of paranoia took control of me: it was like being on stage all the time. I would think him behind the walls and would act pitifully, as if that was the only resource left for me to use against him, or to sensibilize him. And it meant nothing for him! "I had expected too much, out of nothing," I repeated to myself...

This omnipresence of his was irritating. But after all, what could one expect from the "Phantom of the Opera", huh? What a ridiculous existence, I thought, as if I could hurt him doing so.

I couldn't believe I spent so much time talking about this damn ghost, inventing stories, to end up finding out he not only actually existed in flesh and bone, but was also a murderer… and a cruel idiot, who took advantage of my naivety to fool me.

But it was not true. It was not his fault. And yet, I never felt so dependent on someone, and I hated that condition.

It was not like he was the first man I had wanted. I've been through a few dates and relationships before meeting him, though I would prefer acting as an inexperienced child - the same hypocritical trick used by most of the artists around me, who didn't want to give up the attractive and rich men courting them, yet still didn't want a spot on their image.

No, things were different with him, and I could tell that since the very beginning. There was something much more special and strong about him, something that was completely new to me. And to him I had surrendered so completely, even if he had not asked for it...

I stood up and walked to the mirror. It was a small framed looking glass, sitting on a table, half covered by clothes hanging over it. I looked at my face, my hair messed, my freckled cheeks wet. I looked deep into my own eyes and saw it was useless trying to brainwash myself: I still admired him and longed for his proximity.

At a second glance, I felt extremely stupid: certainly I could find something better to do than wallow in self-commiseration.

I combed my hair, tidying it with a braid. What day was today? Was Christine back from her trip to Perros-Guirec yet? I had not decided if I would tell her everything, but I desperately needed to talk with someone. As I walked to the door, my mother entered the room in a rush.

"Meg, the managers put box five on sale again!"

She said that in a somber, worried voice, as she would treat all the subjects related to the Ghost. Again that hateful Ghost. She was the one who started it all, I thought angrily. She was the one who brought the idea that this Phantom was more than a general stage superstition.

She would claim that the maniac who was blackmailing the managers, the spectre spotted often around the Opera, and the spirit who played tricks on artists--were all the same person. I wondered what other incarnations he would assume...

But she was right, after all. It would make sense that this man would blackmail the managers: he had to get money somehow, and having box five for himself at every performance was a bonus. The things my mother "knew" about the Phantom were incredibly exciting, if nothing else--and I had become the preferred resource of stories about him among the ballet girls. How ironic!

So when she told me the Phantom had lost his little privilege, I glared at her and hissed, "it's about time!" slamming the door behind me.

**Coming back from Perros-Guirec**

I found Christine sitting by her dressing table, with an aura of tranquility and happiness around her. She gave me a lovely smile seeing me at her threshold, standing up to embrace me.

Christine was beautiful that night! She was already a very pretty girl, but there was something about this new glow in her face that accentuated it even more.

She had her curly dark hair carefully tied on the top of her head, with a few locks falling on the sides of her face, as a frame to her pale and delicate face. A dark trace of make up complimented her brown eyes, making them look even bigger. A shade of green, matching her gorgeous dress, softened her already sweet look.

It made me happy to see Christine like that, after knowing her for so long as a humble chorus girl. She deserved achieving this, for she was an enchanting person, with a strong wish for conquering her dreams. But...wasn't she only a chorus girl again, after her big night?

"Eh, Christine! What is the occasion?"

She smiled shyly, "Nothing special, Meg. Sit here, please! There is so much I need to tell you!"

I felt very glad that Christine was finally trusting me enough to consider me a good friend, and share things with me. I gave her a broad smile, thinking that there was no reason for me to not tell her what was in my heart, either.

"Me too! By the way, Raoul came..."

"Raoul said he loves me, Meg!" she interrupted me. She had a serious expression on her face, as if waiting for my reaction, but her eyes were shining with excitement. I didn't say anything, and I felt her savouring my surprise.

"He went to Perros-Guirec to meet me!"

"How sweet! But how did he..."

"I sent him a message before leaving, explaining I was going to visit my dad's graveyard."

Christine was exultant, her legs moving nervously under the dress, in a girlish excitement. I must admit that I felt a little discomfort inside of me, which I would call envy. What was I going to tell her? That I met someone that made me fall head over heels in love with him, the same one who "rejected" me completely even before knowing what was going on? And that this person, as a bonus, was the Phantom of the Opera? I busted out laughing bitterly.

"What did I say, Meg?"

Christine took hold of my hands, and her genuine concern made me feel awful for disliking her happiness a while ago. I built my best smile, "Nevermind. So, he went to Perros-Guirec and...?"

She forgot about my strange attitude and resumed, her eyes always lit with joy. "And we spent a nice afternoon together, and he told me he also had heard..." she stopped for a moment, "Oh, Meg, my angel was there, too!"

"Really?" I said, with no irony.

"And just like he promised me, he played in his violin 'The Resurection of Lazarus', a sad song my dad used to play...and my Angel played it at my father's grave, as a homage to the anniversary of his death! Oh, Meg, the Angel played heavenly, as one would expect, and the night was so beautiful." She closed her eyes. "The moon was bright, reflecting its glow everywhere, and his music came, as a blessing from all the angels above! I know Papa was there at that moment, thankful to this wonderful Angel who guides and protects me now."

"And did Raoul hear him, too?"

"Raoul? Well, he had heard him before..." She looked up, as if trying to remember exactly what happened. "Raoul had a strange accident that night, Meg. He was found unconscious the next morning, outside a little church...but...yes, he heard the Angel before that."

"Is he alright now?" I suddenly found myself concerned about him.

"I think so. Well, it's been a while since I left Perros-Guirec, and only his brother has looked for me..."

"What did he say?"

She bent her head, avoiding my look, "I asked the maid to dismiss him..."

"The Count?! Are you crazy, Christine? Do you know how much influence he has in the Opera?"

Her head still down, she said almost in a whisper, "The Angel is very strict with my visitors, I told you. And yet...he seems so...absent...lately..."

"You mean, you haven't heard him?"

"Oh, no! No, he would never miss one lesson! He says I have the most beautiful voice he ever heard, and that it is an honor being my teacher!" she said proudly.

I looked down, having that not-so-noble feeling again.

"He sounds very commending."

"Er...quite. He can be very demanding, and extremely severe, too. But he seems to have changed a little... I don't know how to explain."

I was not all that interested in this angel story to ask much further about his changes.

"How did Raoul manage to listen to him? Does he take singing lessons, too?"

My joke was more bitter than funny. I was getting tired of her nonsensical stories with happy endings. She laughed, saying friendly and gently, "No, you silly! That naughty young man was listening behind my door, when my Angel came to me, inside my dressing room. Raoul heard him talking to me."

"And what was he saying?"

"Among other things, that I must love him. That made Raoul mad with jealousy! It took all my energy to convince him I didn't have a suitor."

"I would imagine..."

But I was not imagining anything. I was feeling worse than I was before coming to Christine. And it was not her fault at all!

At no moment was Christine bragging, she was only sharing with me how happy she was. If that displeased me so much, it was because I couldn't bear to see people content when I felt so miserable. And realizing that made me dislike myself even more.

I excused myself, suddenly remembering an appointment I had with another friend.

"I'm sorry you have to go, Meg! Please stop here later and tell me about your story."

With a grimace, I said I would, and left her room.


	12. “I know you know him”

** "I know you know him"**

It was before noon. She came into the room, her eyes clouded and misty, reflecting in their dead green something terrible that laid in her mind.

"Meg Giry, I must talk with you."

Her voice and face were sinister. I could tell despair had been there, and had shaped her face before giving way to the blankness she exposed now. I could barely recognize my mother.

"Meg Giry, I lost my job."

I was struck, my head felt unbearably heavy all the sudden. My stare was paralyzed at her. In an incoherent way, I began to concentrate on her features, not thinking at all. The bottom of her eyes were swollen and dark, showing she knew her sentence for a while.

I couldn't remember her being so old. It was as if she had never changed at all, and at that moment, she aged two decades in front of my eyes.

Her skin was loose, her cheeks pulling the corners of her mouth slightly down in a severe expression. Her thin lips were dry and tense, with a little trace of fading lipstick. I could see horror in every corner of her expression.

If, for me, that meant I would end up working in a Paris tavern, for my mother it meant her whole life was lived for nothing, for she became Madame Giry, the usher, the maid, the mother, the loyal old lady, rejected and sent away at the end of her days.

I uttered the word "mother" and embraced her, fear overwhelming me.

She didn't break out, as I expected.

She looked very gravely at me and said, "I was told no reason for this, and we are to leave by the end of next week."

I felt tears coming to my eyes, but she did not allow me to go any further.

"Dear, there is a gentleman outside that claims to be able to help us. He says he knows why it happened, as well as how to solve this problem. But for that, he needs to ask you a few questions."

I noticed a trace of condescendence in her voice. I nodded, wiping my tears away on the sleeve of my dress.

She stood up and went to the door.

"You may come in, Monsieur."

"Thank you," he said with a heavy accent.

When he entered the room, I recognized him. I had seen him around the Opera frequently, but I knew nothing about him. No one really knew anything about him. He was known simply as "the Persian."

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle." He took off his exotic cap, bending toward me. He told me his strange name, which I didn't understand well and didn't bother to, and explained that he was on a terribly important mission. Therefore, he had to interrogate me, he said.

I frowned, disturbed by his presence and impertinence in a moment I wished to be alone with my mother.

"Interrogate me about what?"

He looked at me sharply, and asked bluntly, "What are your interests in protecting and dealing with Erik?"

The old and eerie appearance of his clothes disturbed me. I didn't like the man. He could only be testing my patience, I thought, with this police talking. I asked rudely, "What? I haven't the least idea of what you are talking about, Monsieur!"

He smiled cynically and said, "Oh, I believe you do."

His dark eyes, accentuated by his dark complexion and thick eyebrows, made me think of a serpent aiming at its prey. I felt nervous.

"Alright, young lady," he sighed. "Let me first tell you what this mission of mine is about. I'm searching for a dangerous man, mentally disturbed, badly misshapen, and capable of great violence."

I got the picture of a monster in my mind and looked at him in dismay, failing to see how I could help.

"This man is the cause for your mother having been considered mad, and dismissed in humiliation. Because of his maniacal actions, the two of you will be in lack of a place to live, for what I know. And that is only the beginning. Worse than all that, you have been in immeasurable danger."

I looked at my mother, trying to tell if it was only me who thought the man before me was definitively insane. Her expression was untranslatable.

In a more firm voice, he said, "I know you know him. I've seen you around the cellars, and I know that is where his hideaway is located, down in that maze. I ask for your help, so we can solve this problem as quickly as possible, and lead the police exactly to this place, and to him...hopefully in time of sparing many lives. Moreover, only then will we'll be able to demand the readmission of your mother's service at the Theater."

He added severely, "His first strike was against Joseph Bouquet, not too long ago."

His eyes now had a more trusting expression, and you could almost tell he was a good man by the way he looked deeply at you. However, when he mentioned all that, I hated him immediately. For now I knew who he was after, and I despised the filthy way he was trying to convince me to denounce the Phantom.

"I thought Joseph Bouquet had killed himself," I said in a hiss.

"No, Mademoiselle Giry, I believe he didn't. Erik had good reason to get rid of him."

"Then perhaps the stage man was the villain here. Maybe this Erik of yours was just making sure he would solve his own problems properly, not waiting for Monsieur Bouquet to give him further reasons to get rid of him. The way I see it, his only fault was being a little too...impatient... with the stage shifter."

He didn't seem pleased by my insolent joke.

"Mademoiselle, I beg for your common sense. I know you know him, and I believe you can tell me a lot more about this subject.

He is a great threat to this place, and to the lives around here. If not for yourself and your mother, do it for your friend Mademoiselle Daae. Tell me what you know about him!"

Mademoiselle Daae? What did Christine have to do with all this? What did Christine have to do with him?! I didn't want to know the answers. At that moment, I didn't care for anyone around there! There was not much left that he could do against me and my mother, and for the others: he could go ahead and kill whoever he wanted to, the whole Opera if that would make him happier! But he would listen to me!

He couldn't invade my life, just when I thought I had everything under control, throw his spell over me and just walk away! He was responsible for making me care so much about him, he was responsible for binding me to him! And I had to make him aware of that, even if he would curse me or hurt me, finding me in his house again.

The idea of telling the Persian anything about my Phantom, or Erik, as he called him, never crossed my mind. I knew he would be in danger if I did so.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what you are talking about, and I don't see how I can help you," I said in a final tone, leaving it clear he wouldn't get anything from me.

He placed his cap on his head visibly unpleased, leaving the room. I couldn't tell if my mother believed me or not, for she buried her head in her hands and wept for hours.

I would have to talk again with the Phantom no matter what.


	13. Taking reality in

**Taking Reality In**

I had a thousand words for him. Tired of keeping the hurt inside of me, I marched to the cellars, one more time. I needed to stop that situation. It didn't matter to me if he was going to be even more violent. I had to talk with him.

It always seemed like I needed to talk to him, to say anything that might make him give me the chance of getting closer. Every step I took downward that day was heavy with the knowledge that I couldn't go on without him.

When I reached the wine cellar I had been to before, the place was deadly silent. I had a strange feeling of heaviness over my head, the weight of all the lives and the dozen floors on top of me, compressing the passionate personality of that man.

Gazing around the room, I noticed the peeling paint covering the wall, where some old graffiti read 'vive la France.' "He was prisoner of that building, just like the poor men locked inside the catacombs during the Commune," I thought.

Looking through the keyhole again, I saw him in there. It was strange that such a beautiful drawing room could be on the other side of the door. I felt my heart jumping, knowing I had to do something more than spy. I thought of what he had said the last time I'd seen him...and I thought also of how much I came to want him...feeling angry and feeling cheated, those thousand words wanting to come out of my mouth. He had to give me something in return!

I looked inside again. He was standing before another door, across the room. His frame seemed to be made of lead, dark and rigid. Suddenly he turned around...

I gasped harshly, a mix of utter horror and shock, and swallowed an intense scream, burning inside my throat. What in the world was that in front of me?

My mind was empty, I wanted to cry out, I wanted to run away, I wanted to shun that image from my head!

I hadn't expected to find this underneath the mask...at least not that hideous and abominable!

The more I looked at it, the more I shook my head, as if I could change what I had in front of me. I couldn't stop staring, I couldn't take my eyes from that grotesque sight. It was hard to believe it could exist, that it was alive...and that it was the face of the man I'd been fantasizing about.

I couldn't imagine that I would feel so much repulsion, for something that attracted me so much! Despair overwhelmed me completely, and I bounced my head repeatedly against the wall, nervously trying to convince myself it was not true.

His face was as ghastly bony as his hands, supporting an incredibly thin and pale skin. Underneath it a pattern of muscles, unnaturally tense, forging a thousand expressions mixed together, in a unique curse to the world.

It was as if something that had been dead a long time had came back for one more breath of life, moving and talking like any other being. And this abhorrent thing was the man I was in love with, or at least I thought I was!

I cried, totally horrified, feeling destroyed before this reality. How could things be the way they were? I sobbed deeply, trying to keep silent, trembling; and forced myself to look again at...him.

His jaw was extremely narrow and accentuated, somewhat inclined to one side, making his lips twist in such a gruesome way they could barely touch. The skull, misshapen, held no nose, showing in its place a dark sunken area through which I believe he could breathe.

And somewhere between those twisted features, deeply placed on their sockets, his eyes looked somewhat shiny and peaceful, full of an eternal sadness.

My throat was closed, I breathed heavily. What was to be done? I bit my own hands while I stared at his fate, utterly disturbed. What in the world could have happened to him to make such a deformity possible?

How could life take such horrendous paths? Taking this reality in changed everything, and yet, nothing. It was my dark man who was standing there. The Phantom. But I was not sure what I felt anymore.

Who was this man? What was this man? "I should have never gone there, I should have never seen his face," I thought. I could have gone on with my infatuation for as long as I wanted, and perhaps - who knows? - it might have even pleased him. "But what kind of false feelings would those be?" I reprimanded myself. A feeling that can last only as long as I don't see his face, that is, I don't get to know who he really is? I don't think that is what I want. I don't think that is what he would want. But...what could he possibly want from me?

Oh, he would certainly kill me mercilessly if only he knew what I had done! He was such a proud man, nevertheless! No, even if I was still in complete shock from the revelation, I couldn't see him as an insensitive creature. I couldn't deny that underneath his deformity lay the most compelling and wonderful man I had ever met!

I could feel my head spinning wildly, cracking in the effort of understanding and explaining everything. And whence that happened, all kinds of dark and strange feelings were rising inside of me, I was losing control of myself.

"Poor Phantom," I thought, pity invading me. "So that was why he was doomed to live in such a place, always behind a mask!" I remembered the stories about the Phantom of the Opera...so he actually heard some people describing him, even if not so faithfully, and he had people running away from him in despair.

I felt relieved that I'd gotten the chance of knowing the truth without letting him know my reaction. If he was closer to the gentle man he had shown himself to be than to the monster he looked like, I guess I would have supplied him with a great deal of pain, if he'd known the fear and horror he had inspired in me.

The knowledge I had acquired impressed on me a feeling of responsibility. I knew too much about him, and I couldn't betray him! I realized and assumed a commitment to him that he was completely unaware of, and I promised myself I would be true to it. I would try to see past the fear I had so intensely inside me now.

My legs shook in distress when I stood at last. I didn't know what to think. But there would be enough time for that. I just wanted to go back to the surface, to my "sunshine world", as he had said, for I'd had my share of shadows for that day.

_**Dear All,**_

_**I would really appreciate if you could leave some comments, so I know whether I am going in the right direction (or not! ;)) I want to rewrite most of what I have so far, so I would love to hear your opinions!**_

_**Thank you!**_


	14. When it all leads to an affirmation

**When it all leads to an affirmation**

A few memories of that day passed through my mind, accompanied by the weight of various thoughts and feelings, confused and entangled. The tiredness I felt was intoxicating and my body was collapsed on the bed. I was almost asleep when I heard something, faint at first, then a little more distinguishable.

A soft voice. Beautiful, unmistakably beautiful. It was calling my name, in a melodic whisper. Instead of startling me, it led me to a hypnotizing numbness, and I felt as if I was floating. As the voice insisted for me, the sense of reality finally touched me. The sound came from very close, from behind the wall. It was the Phantom. Erik.

He sounded high spirited that night, his smooth pitch surrounding me in the darkness. I thought of the beckoning man, and didn't recall the sight hidden by the mask. I felt as if I was under a spell. My name sounded so pure, spoken by him…

"Meg? Do you know who this is?"

"Uh-huh." How true it was...

"Meg, I came here to talk about your mother's job." He was gentle, and it felt as if his voice could caress me and embrace me, leaving no option but to follow it blindly. He continued, "I am aware I caused her troubles. Unwillingly, but I did. I will restore her position as soon as possible, be assured. Please tell her there is no need to cry anymore. I always appreciated her service, and would not let it stay like this."

"Ah, so you were listening when she came home, weren't you?" I said, more accusingly than I intended to.

"Yes." he said simply, and then hesitated for a while, as if considering whether he should voice his thoughts. "Meg…why did you not tell the Persian what he wanted to know?"

His doubt was genuine, and he had probably been thinking exhaustively about this. I answered effortlessly, as it seemed pretty obvious to me, "Because I care for you."

He was silent for some time.

"Why?" he asked, more to himself than to me, very sincerely and surprised.

There was sad evidence that he terminally failed in finding something special about himself. Something that would make him worthy of being loved, perhaps? The irony was that he, more than anybody else, I thought, deserved to be loved. And it would be so easy to love him, if it was not for...

I felt an incredible compassion for this man, but didn't say anything. The sight of his face had come back to my mind, haunting me as some kind of lingering nightmare. I felt very uncomfortable at his presence, all the sudden, dueling with contrasting feelings. I didn't have a definitive image of him anymore. I thought of his voice, the beautiful way he pronounced every word, and couldn't imagine it coming from that face, the flow of his rich voice and soft gentleness touching those wretched lips. It was almost as if it was two different persons, one was a perfect abstraction, while the other one was a deep and terrifying reality.

Yes, he was real. The horror, as well as the attraction he inspired in me, was real. Therefore, it was also a relief having a confirmation that he did exist, that he was not a figment of my wandering imagination - even if he had to be the way he was. More than all, he inspired me with a determination of living intensely, of taking chances...and I didn't even know on what.

But whether my mind was a mess or not, it was no concern of his, and I had promised myself to do all that was in my reach to never let him know I had seen him unmasked. So, leaving those thoughts unheard and forgotten in a corner of my mind, I asked, "Is your name really Erik?"

"Erik is a name I took by chance. But it works fine..." He sounded very light headed, contrary to his usual grave attitude.

"I must thank you for your discretion, Meg. I wouldn't like to have the Persian messing with my affairs any further," he said, seriously.

Even when he didn't sound too withdrawn, I could still tell easily that he held a barrier between him and people, between him and me. The mask itself was a cruel obstacle, for as much as I could pretend to know him well, the truth was I didn't know him at all. At least, not that he was conscious of...

Why would he conceal not only his face, but himself, so hermetically unreachably? Was there any secret path through the cover of protection he had thrown around himself, or was he lost in his gloomy world forever? I have had unusual and secret dreams of getting into this world and rescuing him, but that had been before. I couldn't tell for sure, not anymore, if I was ready to try it, or willing to.

Of course I had been speculating about the meeting with the foreign man, and wondering what in the world he could have to do with Erik. Asking this question to the Phantom, though, was another story. It seemed like whenever I pushed my way through that barrier, he felt wildly threatened, even if my intentions were the best ever. I decided forgetting the topic, at least for now.

"You are very welcome. Where are you, exactly?"

"Everywhere!" his voice spread itself to all the walls and objects, in a magical way. I felt surrounded, people and things talking back to me, with voices that belonged to nobody. He laughed, proud of his little trick.

"Nice! Are you a ventriloquist?"

"Me? Little Meg Giry, I am no ventriloquist, I am a Phantom!"

He feigned indignation, making me laugh with him. The inconstancy of his moods was amazing! He could show great fits of temper, as I had just seen a while back, as well as these playful, even childish attitudes.

"Would you like to come in and talk for a while?"

I was secretly hoping he would. In spite of all that happened, I had missed him and still had that urge of being with him. I also wanted to put my indecision towards him to a test. I suppose the haunting image of his deformity wasn't enough to put an end to that feeling of admiration I had since the beginning. No, there should be a lot more about him to make me forget that sight, and I wanted to allow myself to be seduced by him again.

I believe he hadn't considered the idea of actually getting inside my room, sitting on my bed and chatting with me. He was so used to being the Phantom, the one who talks from behind walls (or mirrors, as I was ready to learn by the time), that my question took him by surprise.

"I don't think it would be a good idea," he said hesitantly. "By the way, Meg Giry" He quickly changed the subject, " just in case you've given a thought about going on with your...spying habits, I'm obliged to let you know I've just blocked that passage to my lair tonight."

I shrugged my shoulders, pitying him for believing his timing was good. It was too late, it didn't matter anymore. If only he had done that a little earlier... I wondered if he could possibly have guessed my presence there in the afternoon, but I dismissed the idea. He wouldn't be so calm if he knew I had seen him.

"Erik," it was a little strange calling him by this name, "how exactly are you going to help my mother?" I was eager to concentrate myself in some conversation, to avoid thinking over and over about my doubts.

He gave a malicious laugh. "Ah, my dear one! Don't you worry about it! I can assure you it will be quite easy."

I smiled, wondering what he was up to. "Good, because if it doesn't work, I'll lose my place in the Opera, and I'll end up having to sleep in your house down there. And I believe you wouldn't like it..." I said playfully, just realizing my words after they had slipped out of my mouth. Had I thought twice, I wouldn't have said it. But I was thankful for my spontaneity.

He, in the other hand, was obvious in showing he didn't take my comment too well.

"Not especially..."

I laughed silently at his reaction. Sometimes I felt so close to him! I would have given everything to know what was inside his mind. So many things I wanted to talk about...but I was afraid of going too far, and unexpectedly making him leave.

"So, do you want to hear the new rumors about you, Mr. Phantom?" I asked conversationally.

"Oh, yes!" he answered, purposely child-like.

We talked for quite some time, and I thought it incredibly funny that he knew as much gossip from the Opera as I did, possibly even more.

When I met him, I didn't believe he was the kind of person who could ever talk joyfully. But after sharing some of his hearty laughs I was sure he still had a lot of life and happiness inside his heart, and it made things even sadder.

Still giggling in our conversation, I asked him jokingly, "So, since you see everything that happens in the Opera House, have you met Christine Daae's Angel of Music yet?"

I had forgotten by then all the hints I had received on this matter. I didn't expect any revelation when I asked it, and I can't imagine having asked it if I only knew what would come of it. A little word, so simple, so definitive. So crushing.

He answered, "Yes."


End file.
